


Merry Christmas

by Not_You



Series: Dreamhouse [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Age Play, Alternate Universe, Children's Literature, Christmas, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, M/M, Puppets, Recreational Drug Use, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-16
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:58:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/594238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working on this for the following kinkmeme prompt:</p><p>
  <i>Phil and Clint spend Christmas day together, alone. It snows.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Everything else is fair game. Sexy times is optional. I just want Clint to have a good Christmas and I want Phil to give it to him. </i>
</p><p>Phil and Clint's first Christmas together in the Dreamhouse universe.  They spend it alone in a cabin in the mountains, because few things are cozier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Once Senator Octopus is done wishing their entire viewing audience a happy holiday season, it's just a matter of cleaning up and then kicking back from now until Tony recovers from his New Year's hangover. Thor is repairing Inspector Dolphin, and beams as he thanks Phil for being so inclusive. Thor is some kind of Norse-based neopagan whose big event of the season is Winter Solstice, to the surprise of absolutely no one. Phil smiles.

"I've been doing it for years. Probably has to do with growing up next door to one of the only Jewish families in town."

"Man, I remember when Mrs. Rabinowitz said I couldn't come over anymore after I won her son as my slave for six months. I was always wicked good at dreidel." Tony's voice is muffled, the upper half of his body crammed down Commissioner Whale's gullet because his lost keys are perhaps in amidst the gears. Bruce rolls his eyes, methodically checking every little compartment in the toolbox.

Phil chuckles. "Somehow I get the feeling you didn't get to collect on that."

"The hell I didn't, I just saved it up for a couple years. Let him fill out and realize he was kinky." He emerges from the maw of the whale grinning, and Phil just shakes his head.

"Enterprising little minx, weren't you?" Clint says, coming in and tossing Tony's keys to Bruce. "Left 'em in the vent again."

"Tony."

"It's at a handy shelf height! You can't make things ergonomic and then blame me!"

Pepper comes clicking in with snow in her hair, and chuckles. "I blame you for everything, baby."

"…That includes the good stuff, right?"

"Yes, yes it does." She kisses him softly and holds out a hand to Bruce, who finishes packing up and comes to join them, lacing his fingers with Pepper's. It seems like her entrance is come kind of cue, because Bucky and Jane are hard on her heels. The usual pleasantries are exchanged, Bucky throws Steve over his shoulder like spoils of war and carries him off over protests lodged merely for the sake of form. Phil is pretty sure Jane would do the same to Thor if she could. She settles for kissing him and hooking her hand through his belt. She's clearly dragging him off to ravish him, and he is not the least bit displeased with it. Natasha has already vanished, and it's not long before it's just Phil and Clint in the dim and quiet studio.

"Ready to go?"

"I'm still not sure about going somewhere with nothing to do."

"Well, I was thinking we could while the winter hours away with fucking."

Clint grins. "When you put it like that, boss…"

"Exactly." Phil takes his hand and kisses it, leading him out. Clint has told him a lot about previous Christmases. Between bitter drunken ranting, heartbreaking jokes, and resolute silence, Phil knows a lot. He wants this one to be different and has taken steps to ensure it. Clint's few good holiday memories stem from ragged gatherings of orphans like himself, and from Thanksgiving, where he is a fixture at Sam's family board.

"You sure it's okay with your family?"

"Yes. I put in an appearance at Thanksgiving, and I never subject anyone to them at under six months. The Coulson clan has always had a strong Catholic bent. It's Easter dinner that we absolutely must attend unless one or both of us is in the hospital."

Clint grimaces. "Maybe I can shoot myself in the foot. You know, like guys did to avoid the draft."

"Please don't, your feet are as beautiful as the rest of you."

"You sweet talker, you." Their bags are already in the car, another advantage of working together so much, and Phil just laughs, getting into the driver's seat.

"Easter won't be so bad. I promise."

"Do I gotta sit through Mass?"

"Yes, yes you do." 

Clint groans, slumping miserably in his seat. 

"But my grandmother is still alive and knows arcane and secret things to do to ham. I suspect she laces it with morphine, but I can't be sure."

"Sounds like a fair trade."

It's a long drive, as Phil has already warned Clint, who has in turn warned Phil that he hasn't gotten enough sleep and won't be much company. Phil doesn't mind, and drives on through the dark with instrumental jazz playing quietly and Clint curled into a cozy ball in the seat beside him. He doesn't wake up until they're in the mountains, pulled over so Phil can put on the chains. Job done, Phil looks through the window to see Clint uncurling, his jacket like the shell of an armadillo. He smiles and climbs back in, starting the car again. "We're getting close."

Clint yawns hugely and grins. "Awesome." He stays awake for the last hour, looking around curiously at the snow-covered scenery. Phil isn’t sure what 'cabin' is making Clint picture. He's not actually a city boy, but Waverly is farmhouse, shack, and trailer country. Still, there is real plumbing, which Phil had been sure to mention. There is, however, no cell reception and no landline, only a radio for emergencies. He tells Clint this along the way, and agrees that yes, he is stealing Clint away to his lair. He smiles sidelong at him, carefully navigating a treacherous curve. "My lair in the mountains, even. Why yes, I might be a supervillain." And if he were, he'd destroy the world for just one happy cackle from Clint. When Clint laughs, he _commits_ , and it's a beautiful thing to witness.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint can't help but be a little nervous with all the curves in the road and the ice and the wind, but he trusts Phil, and Phil gets them there safely. Apparently this little two-story place tucked up in a mountain crag has been in the family for generations. Phil and his siblings and various cousins are supposed to share it on a very convoluted and exact schedule, but nobody wants it in the winter. Nobody but Phil, who apparently wants to take Clint away and give him a nice Christmas. Clint still isn't sure what to make of that, but he'll take what he can get. Part of him is still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong. He's pretty sure it will, and while that may not be the healthiest thing, he's at least trying to be a philosopher about it. And the cabin is fucking great.

"I feel like I'm in Little House on the Prairie," he says, staring around in awe at the log walls and the very real (and very huge) fireplace.

Phil laughs. "Not exactly. There's a real bathroom, and electricity once I get the genny running."

"Jesus, you're like, capable. Wilderness Phil."

Phil just grins and kisses him, lighting a kerosene lamp and leading him up to the freezing bedroom to drop off their bags before heading back down to build a fire. He's still in his suit, but somehow manages to keep the whole thing pristine as he settles paper and kindling and explains the entire process to Clint, who has more experience with burn barrels than nice stone hearths. Once it's crackling away happily, Phil kisses Clint on the head and tells him to stay right where he is. He does, staring into the fire and feeling very small and very loved. Phil comes back soon, and the combination of the burst of cold air from the opening door and the lights suddenly going on makes Clint jump. Phil chuckles, wiping off the boots that have long since replaced his mirror-shined shoes, and pulls them off, hanging up his coat and coming to join Clint. Settling down beside him, he puts an arm around his waist and kisses his cheek.

"So I guess we're getting the tree tomorrow, then."

"…We're getting a tree?"

"Of course we are."

"…Where?" Clint can't imagine driving anywhere. They're basically trapped up here until the plows run again on New Year's Day.

"Outside." Phil gestures to one of the windows, full of blowing white.

"…Seriously?"

Phil laughs and hugs him. "Yes, seriously. There's a stand and a hatchet and everything here. Trust me, I'm a professional."

"Holy shit, Phil I don't think I've _ever_ had a real tree."

Phil sighs, and presses a kiss to his temple. "I was afraid of that."

"The fake one at my last group home was nice, though." He leans on Phil and tells him about that place, where the house mom had actually sort of cared, and had even made Christmas cookies from real ingredients and not out of a tube. The tree had been this giant fucking mound of silver tinsel, and there had been something that didn't suck under it for everyone. 

Phil smiles softly. "What did you get?"

Clint sighs, cuddling closer. "This ridiculous old school popgun, with the string and the cork and everything, like in a goddamn cartoon. It was way louder than it should've been, and I spent the rest of my time there sneaking up on people and scaring the crap out of them. 'Cause I'm an asshole like that."

"It's part of your charm, Clint. Like a kitten that always goes for your ankles."

"Eventually it got busted like everything does, but I had it for a long time." Phil just makes one of his soft, listening noises and holds Clint a little tighter. He sighs, and nuzzles Phil's chest. "Can't believe you're still in that suit, man."

"You love my suit."

"I do, but it's gotta be uncomfortable by now."

Phil chuckles and kisses Clint's cheek, getting up and vanishing upstairs. He comes trotting down a moment later, still dressed and smiling at Clint's quizzical look. "Still too cold up there," he says by way of explanation, and then he's stripping, painted orange and gold by the fire. It's not really a show, but it sort of is to Clint because he's never going to get sick of ogling Phil. And of course, starting in the Mr. Coulson suit just hits him right in the perversions. Down to his undershirt and tie, Phil winks at him and his hips start a slow roll to inaudible music as he eases the rest off. The tie is last, the bastard, and Clint reflects that he probably never would've saved up enough for his photography classes if any of the strippers he'd seen were half as hot as this. When Phil just smirks at him, Clint is even more grateful he's not a stripper, because there's no bouncer to curbstomp Clint for grabbing Phil's tie and yanking him into a rough kiss.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint's hands are fast and rough, pawing Phil like no one ever did when he was a teenager because he was too busy captaining the chess team and being gay. It makes his heart pound and leaves him breathless and a little shaky. It's a good thing Clint is strong enough to lean on, and Phil clutches at all that hard muscle and whines when one hand cups his balls, squeezing just hard enough to remind Phil that this doesn't have to be pleasant, that he's only safe with Clint's ferocious strength because Clint loves him.

"Fuck, Phil…" His voice is ragged, awestruck and lost. "Not the classiest, but can I just throw you down and fuck you right here?"

"Don't throw too hard and I'm game."

Clint laughs, and in a second Phil is on his back on the rug, Clint pinning his hands over his head. He shivers and struggles a little, just to see what will happen. Clint keeps him right where he is, and swallows hard as he stares down at him, looking almost unbearably young. "Is… Is this okay?"

"Yes," Phil breathes, because it's a hell of a lot more than okay. Clint whimpers and kisses him again, bruising lips on teeth as he grinds into Phil's hip so hard it has to be hurting him. He bites and sucks at Phil's neck and mercilessly ignores his cock as it gets harder and harder, no matter how much he squirms. He growls soft, possessive words into Phil's ear, more and more heated and mindless as he ruts against him. That Phil is his, his whore, his daddy, his slave, his motherfucking everything. Clint's voice cracks a little and he bites Phil's neck so hard he cries out in pain, struggling harder than ever to get some friction, whimpering and writhing. "Please, Clint, please…"

"Please what, baby?" Clint purrs, licking at his mouth. "What do you need?"

Phil groans, squirming and struggling to form words. "Touch me," he whimpers, back arching up in a futile attempt to get some kind of contact, cock painfully hard. "Please Clint, please touch me, please, I need you I need you I—" He cuts himself off with a loud, surprised groan as Clint lets go of his wrists and slides down, still fully dressed and shaking all over. He spreads Phil's legs and settles between them, the leather of his jacket cool and soft against Phil's inner thighs. He can't help but purr a little, sliding his legs over Clint's shoulders and luxuriating in the material, gently digging his heels in.

"So you weren't joking about the leather fetish, were you?"

Phil whimpers at Clint's soft, hot breath on his skin, and waits until he can speak again. "You mean all the nuzzling hasn't tipped you off?"

"I knew it, you only love me for my sweet jacket." He grins and nibbles Phil's inner thigh as Phil struggles to form the right words to assure Clint that this is in no way the case. He only manages a garbled noise, but it's heartfelt. Clint just chuckles. "You know I was kidding." He nuzzles Phil's cock, letting it graze his face as Phil tries not to lose his mind. "God, I love your cock…" It's a gusty sigh that's touch as much as sound, wrapping him in Clint's warm breath and making him whimper. "Mm, gimme your hands." Clint reaches up and takes them, putting them on his head. He claims to like direction, and is working on training all of Phil's good manners out of him. At least where blowjobs are concerned. Phil groans and cradles Clint's head in his hands, loving the prickly softness of his hair. He wouldn't mind if Clint grew it out a bit, (or a lot) but he probably never will. Phil lightly digs his nails into Clint's scalp, and he purrs. The vibration makes Phil moan, and Clint trembles, taking him deeper.

It's hard to go against his training, but they've talked about this. Clint likes Phil's hands on his head, likes to be pushed down, directed. Phil moans and rocks his hips up, shallow and quick, stroking Clint's tongue. He sucks happily for an endless moment, then pulls off. "You know what I said."

"Remember when you liked me because I was a gentleman?"

"Aw, but baby, a gentleman sees to the pleasure of his companion, and his companion has already said, 'goddammit, fuck my mouth.'"

Phil moans, blushing and feeling ridiculous for doing so. Clint sighs and nuzzles his thigh. "God, I love you."

Phil would say the same if could speak, but as soon as Clint has, he swallows Phil's cock again and renders him incapable of anything but high, formless noises. Phil does his best to be a gentleman at all times, and has been carefully taught not to grab or pull too much. Clint generally appreciates it, along with all Phil's other gentleness, but sometimes he wants Phil to forget the rules and fucking give it to him, which is a direct paraphrase from one of their first, most memorable discussions of the matter.


	4. Chapter 4

Clint whimpers, sliding his mouth down Phil's cock, swallowing and swallowing, eyes tearing up as he gags a little but that's good too. Good like Phil's heavy hands on his head, pushing him down. He whines and forces his eyes open, rolling them up to look at Phil who is staring down at him with a wide-eyed, helpless expression even as he fucks Clint's drooling mouth, and that just makes it better. He closes his eyes and loses himself in it, only pulling off enough to pull a breath in through his nose and only doing that when he gets lightheaded. He knows they're both clean, and loves having that trust even more than he loves being able to swallow. And he loves it a lot. Phil always tries to warn him, because Phil is unbearably sweet, and this time is no different from any other.

"Clint, I—" And then he's crying out, with that little shocked note that Clint will never get enough of, and Clint sucks down every drop, licking his lips as he finally lets Phil's softening cock slip free. After a moment to catch his breath, Phil reaches down and hauls him up, kissing him like he'll never get to again. Clint is still rock hard and it actually hurts a bit, but he loves this part, where Phil holds him close and tells him how completely amazing he is. He cuddles in against him and sighs, his happy, quiet purring turning into a moan as Phil grips him through his pants, squeezing gently and rolling Clint onto his back. 

"My turn," he coos, and Clint laughs breathlessly, wriggling out of jeans and boxers. Phil's technique is kind of hard to describe, since it completely ruins Clint's brain every time. It's some combination of the vibrations from the happy moaning noises Phil makes in his throat and this devastatingly precise little thing he does with his tongue, merciless sensation in tiny points and intricate patterns that always makes him explode sooner rather than later. Tonight is no exception, and he's scrabbling at Phil's neck and shoulders and what's left of his hair, cursing horribly as it winds tighter and tighter until he bucks and howls, shaking for a long time as Phil swallows and licks him clean.

"Holy shit, Phil."

Phil crawls up, grinning. "We aim to please." He kisses Clint softly, sighing and holding him close. They just lie there baking by the fire for a long time, but at last Phil kisses him again and sits up, stretching. 

Clint watches as he stands and dresses in jeans and a t-shirt, buttoning a flannel one over it. "Awesome, reverse striptease." Phil just laughs at him and gets two glasses out of the cupboard and letting the tap run a while first, because the water has been in the pipes a long time. What he brings Clint at last is clear and sweet, and he guzzles it down. "So, now what?"

Phil checks his watch. "Well, it's pretty early even for an old man like me to go to bed…" He goes to the window and cups his hands over the glass to block the light, examining the weather. "It's not blowing so hard anymore—" He thumps his forehead to glass as Clint snickers uncontrollably. "Stop that, you!"

"Never! But sure, why the hell not?" He finishes his water. "Feel loved, you're the only person I'd follow into the woods in the dark in winter."

"I appreciate the mark of esteem or what it is, darling." He pulls back and starts pulling on his coat. For all the snow, it isn't actually very cold, only a few degrees below freezing. The cold air feels soft on Clint's face, and there's a strange, buzzing energy to the air, like phantom ozone. Phil takes a deep breath, and laughs up at the now visible stars. Clint just stares, because he's never seen so many in his life. Some of them actually have _color_ , shining blue and red and yellow in the perfect black of space. He can see the Milky Way and why anyone ever called it that, because it does look like someone has spilled a pitcher of the shimmering stars across the sky.

"Jesus fuck, that's a lot of stars." He really needs better words. Maybe if he hangs around Phil long enough, the class will rub off.

"That it is," Phil says, and switches off his headlamp to come stand next to Clint and point out Cassiopeia, Orion, both the Dippers and Draco where it twines between them. The ancient Greeks were fucked up, but even Clint already knew that.

"Why the hell did they give their bears long-ass tails? Dippers make way more sense."

"I've never been sure. My own theory is a combination of drunkenness and stars we can no longer see that might've made the image make more sense."

Standing still they start to get cold, and they're still on a mission, so at least Phil turns his light back on and leads Clint into the darkness of the forest. It's dense spruce here, looking more black than green against their loads of snow. Phil has already found a good little thicket where they're growing straight and still small enough for two guys to carry pretty easily. Of course he lets Clint pick which one, and doesn't even act surprised when Clint accidentally calls him Daddy when indicating his choice. He just smiles.

"Good choice, Clint. With this one gone, all the others will get more sun."

He probably shouldn't feel this proud of himself, but fuck it. Soon enough they're down in the snow, Clint holding the lower branches up as Phil makes an expert cut with the handsaw he's carrying. He's puffing a little, though, so they switch jobs and Clint does the other side. He's never really done much sawing before, but having seen it done, his cut is all right. Phil catches the tree as it starts to tip, and when it comes free Clint passes the saw over and hefts the trunk onto his shoulder.

"Got a good grip, honey?"

"Yes, Daddy." It slips out on its own and Clint blushes in the dark.

"Good," is all Phil says, and starts up to the cabin again. It's not too long a walk or too heavy a weight, but Clint is still glad to get to the end of it. They prop the tree against the outside wall and go in to warm up and figure out where they're going to put it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never too late to have a happy childhood.

They've run some experiments with this whole ageplay thing. Phil is a methodical man, and willing to dedicate his considerable talents and resources toward pleasing those he loves. And he loves Clint so much it makes his chest hurt. Right now Clint is definitely in some kind of fuzzy state, and Phil just follows his lead, agreeing to put the tree against the other wall so the fire won't dry it out but will still warm them as they open gifts. The stand and tree skirt are ancient but clean, and Phil feels himself falling down the rabbit hole to his own childhood as they set it up and fill the stand with water. He shows Clint how to make sure the tree will stand straight, and then hauls out the boxes of ornaments. Clint stares at how many there are, and Phil smiles. 

"Some of these were my grandmother's. Why not pick through and see what you like while I make us some cocoa?" Cocoa while trimming the tree is a Coulson family tradition, and one he's very glad to share. Clint pauses the way he always does when processing that he's allowed to touch something that has value of any kind, and then starts looking through them, eyes lighting up as he finds the old set of silver and gold birds, tiny details picked out in foil-backed glass. Phil smiles, stirring melted chocolate in the saucepan. "We've had those forever. The wren is my favorite."

Clint smiles, and examines it carefully, the tiny beak and upright tail. He sets it aside after a moment, and by the time the cocoa is done has dug through just about everything, fascinated by the old-fashioned shapes and manufacturing techniques. He looks up when Phil brings out the two steaming mugs. "What about lights?"

"I brought new ones; anything up here is probably full of asbestos and doesn't work anyway." That said, he goes and fetches them. Personally, Phil prefers white lights, but he lets Clint wrap the tree in two strands of the multicolored ones instead before they start with the ornaments. Clint is so careful with each one, and fusses with their placement like the artist he is. Phil of course lets him lead the way, and isn't very surprised to find the tree covered with things that fly. The bird ornaments, some little wooden biplanes, the set of little angels… Phil puts on the crystalline, shimmering blown glass ones he likes best, and Clint fills the gaps with the glittery fake sugarplums Nana had always liked so much.

"Those were my paternal grandmother's favorite."

"Then I guess we should put up a lot of 'em, huh?"

"Yeah." He kisses Clint's cheek, and laughs to see the bottom of his cup. "Seconds?"

Clint blushes a little. "Yeah. Please. What's in this, anyhow?"

"Chocolate, brown sugar, vanilla extract, cinnamon, cayenne pepper, a little brandy…"

"Jesus, Phil." This look of faint consternation at being given homemade food is one of those responses that breaks Phil's heart every time.

"It's a family recipe." He kisses Clint's cheek and pours more for both of them before they go and pronounce judgment upon the tree. It needs the tiny musical instruments, without a doubt. Also the glass butterflies. But after that it's only a matter of getting the topper on and getting the boxes out of the way. Then they're able to just sit on the couch and do glorious, glorious nothing, admiring their handiwork. Clint curls up small against Phil's side and cradles his cup in both hands, sipping the rich chocolate in contented silence. He's so still, and Phil is achingly proud of him. After everything Clint has been through, this is always at least a little difficult. He doesn't talk about it much, but he's just now becoming safe in the dark behind his eyelids again.

"Daddy?" Clint murmurs, going faintly pink.

"Yes, sweetheart?"

Clint gives the same happy little shiver he always does, and crawls into Phil's lap, careful not to spill either of their drinks. Phil chuckles, and cuddles Clint in against his chest. "Ah, I see. Better?"

"Yeah." Clint snuggles close and actually falls asleep there. Phil just enjoys having him all pliant and trusting and utterly relaxed in his lap. For the first time in a long time Phil wishes he were younger. He could have carried Clint up the stairs about fifteen years ago, but tonight has to gently shake him awake. 

"Let's get upstairs, kiddo."

"Mmmmkay."

Phil chuckles and gets his dozing boy comfortably propped up, going to run some water into the mugs and then coming back to help Clint up the stairs. "Don' see why I gotta get up jus' to go t' bed."

"Because that couch will turn your spine into an accordion." He kisses the corner of Clint's jaw. "Besides, I'd miss you."

"S'nice to be appreciated."

"And you are," Phil coos, getting them up the last few steps and closing the door behind them. Clint smiles sleepily and strips off his clothes, shivering and crawling into bed, teeth chattering as he hits the still-icy sheets. He gives Phil a look so woebegone and resentful that it makes him laugh, and he wastes no time in joining Clint, wrapping around him. "Better?"

"Yeah," Clint whispers, tangling their legs together.

"Good." Phil kisses his forehead and basks in the happy, almost inaudible sound Clint makes in response.


	6. Chapter 6

The days up to Christmas Eve pass in a warm, blissful boredom that Clint has never known before. He and Phil actually play checkers. Checkers, for fuck's sake! It's wholesome and comfortable and even after months with Phil, he can't believe this is still happening, that he's with someone who actually takes care of him. But here he is, an irrefutable fact. He can shift from Daddy to Phil and back again as quickly as Clint's fucked up moods, and can accommodate the subtler shift from Clint wanting to be held like someone's actual son to wanting to be fucked silly. Which is another good way to spend their time, and for all Phil's bitching about being old and tired he seems to be keeping up just fine.

"Clint, you're going to be the death of me."

"Best death ever and you know it."

Phil grins up at him, covered in a light sheen of sweat. "Yeah."

Clint laughs and then groans, shifting his weight back and taking Phil even deeper. He loves this, riding Phil deep and slow and dirty, rolling and swiveling his hips in their own happy little dance. Phil whimpers, biting his lip and tipping his head back. He clutches at Clint's shoulders and groans at the flex of his arms as he leans forward, planting a hand on either side of Phil's head and dipping down to kiss him. "God, Clint," he breathes, clinging to Clint and holding him close. Clint shudders and tightens as hard as he can around Phil, wrenching a strangled sound out of his chest. "Like that, Daddy?" He grins down at him, flushed and warm all over.

"Fuck, you know I do…" Phil melts under him, hands shifting to grip his ass and hold him open. Clint groans and sits up again, tensing and making Phil whine and squirm.

"Yeah," he growls, "I do." 

When Phil reaches up to tug just a little on his bars, Clint moans, the sound long and low and pornographic. Phil grins and does it harder, and now it's a competition, the way it gets sometimes. Clint is at a disadvantage here, being younger and all, but he's found that if he plays his cards right, the handicap almost disappears. Right now he's losing, though, moaning in masochistic ecstasy and grinding down harder and harder on Phil, his cock perfectly aligned with Clint's prostate. He'll be sore later, both his chest and his ass, but not really damaged. Phil knows just how to do this, and Clint whines, forcing his eyes open to meet that steady and intent gaze. And then Phil slides one hand up to just hold his throat, strength protecting and not constricting there as he grips Clint's cock with the other one. After that it's hopeless, and Clint's eyes fill with tears as he presses into both hands and feels safe. Another few seconds and he's coming, letting out the loud, helpless cry that always embarrasses him as soon as circulation returns to his brain. It hasn't yet, though, so he just shakes his way through it and makes a mess all over Phil, who groans and fucks into him just a little harder and it kind of hurts but that's good and then Phil's coming, groaning and clinging to Clint.

They just sleep for a while after that, all warm and tangled together in the perfect quiet. The wind has died down over the last couple days, and the skies have been clear. Nothing disturbs the tracks in the snow, and theirs cross and recross the trails of squirrels and birds as well as rabbits, foxes, deer and wild sheep. Phil knows them all, of course, where Clint's vocabulary of tracks is pretty much large bird, smaller bird, rabbit, and unknown. He's picking it up pretty fast, though. He's good at seeing little details. Right now he feels like he could lie here forever, but at last Phil prods him and they shuffle down into the kitchen.

Because Phil is Phil, they're actually doing Christmas dinner, and because it's real food, they need to eat their extremely late breakfast and get to work. Phil has already revealed his Martha Stewart side, and Clint has actually gotten used to frigging polenta, of all things. He's not used to duck, but he welcomes another chance to try it. Aside from one trip out into the blinding whiteness of the short winter day for firewood, they stay inside where the air is warm and full of the scent of cooking. The radio is only for emergencies, but Clint's mp3 player isn't, and he feels kind of stupid for how proud he is when Phil says his ghetto trick of using a coffee cup for an amplifier in the absence of external speakers is clever. He doesn't actually have any Christmas songs besides 'A Twisted Sister Christmas,' but thanks to the great American tradition of saturating the airwaves with the fucking things from Black Friday to a week after the New Year he and Phil are sick of them anyway and stick to classic rock and Motown.


	7. Chapter 7

It makes Phil sound old even in his head, but it's true that it's rare to find a guy Clint's age who appreciates wine. He still shakes his head in amusement every time Phil opens a bottle to let it breathe, but he'll be used to it one day, by God. Now he's lurking by the oven, watching the duck and the pecan pie that's keeping it company. It's really too gooey for Phil's liking, but it's Clint's favorite and so that is what they are having. Thus it is written, thus it shall be. He smiles, and calls, "Staring won't make it go any faster!"

"Just checking on it, jeez. The bird looks about done, though."

"Yeah, I think we've timed it about right." Clint comes sauntering out and wraps around Phil from behind, nuzzling the back of his neck. Phil purrs and leans back into the embrace, taking one of Clint's hands from its resting place on his waist to kiss each fingertip in turn. Clint whimpers, and holds him a little more tightly, suddenly needy in that sharp and immediate way that breaks Phil's heart every time. They just stand there for a long moment, Phil letting Clint cling. And then the oven timer breaks the spell, and Clint lets him go.

Dinner turns out, which is good because Phil doesn't have the right things on hand to commit seppuku properly. He feels like he has turned into his mother as he does his best to feed Clint into oblivion. And possibly diabetes, as almost half the pie vanishes. This is the first time Phil has actually had the time to whip cream to go with a baked good, and it is apparently a revelation if the look on Clint's face is anything to go by. Phil chuckles, finishing his own slice.

"About done, kid?"

"Yeah."

"On the verge of food coma?"

"Yeah."

He smiles, and gets Clint some water, rubbing his belly. "Eating too much is an important part of the holidays, but don't make yourself sick."

Clint giggles. "I'm fine."

"Okay." He kisses the top of Clint's head, and they just sit there for a while to let everything settle. At last Phil gets up and starts making vague motions toward washing the dishes. 

Clint sighs, hands on his belly. "You know what this could use?"

"What?"

"…Promise not to be mad?"

"Yes." Clint lurches up and away, returning with an empty and unlabeled prescription vial and an interesting little piece of glassware. "Ah, I see. I'm not mad, because my car doesn't stink of illegal drugs, and I doubt the DEA will be battering my door down."

"Cool." He sets his paraphernalia on the table and finishes clearing it before sitting down and loading his pipe. It's rounded and smooth and sturdy, the glass gleaming turquoise in the low light. The smell of the smoke takes Phil back a decade or two, and he smiles, watching it rising in the still air.

Clint glances over as he approaches, and releases a cloud of smoke when he speaks. "Uh. You wanna hit?"

Phil shrugs. "Sure." Clint grins from ear to ear, and hands him the pipe. It's been a long time, but Phil still remembers the physics of the thing. Thumb over the carb, flame to the still-green bud in the bowl, and inhale. It's fragrant and harsh and heady, and he does his best to hold it in for what feels like forever but finally has to release it on a barking cough. 

Clint laughs. "You okay, Daddy?"

"Hell, yeah." He hands it back and goes to poke at the fire, feeling just a little lightheaded, the beginning of a buzz.

"God, I fuckin' love that you're all right with this shit," Clint says, taking another hit and wandering over to sprawl on the couch.

Phil clicks his tongue. "And how old are you now, baby boy? Because Daddy doesn't let little kids have drugs."

"Daddy gave me wine," Clint says, sticking his tongue out at him.

"Ah, but that's traditional. Though I shouldn't be a hypocrite, I smoked for the first time when I was sixteen… well, ate special brownies, but it's the same difference."

"Hell, brownies get you more fucked up." Clint rolls onto his back and hangs his legs over the back of the couch, watching Phil upside-down.

"Maybe so." He puts a little more wood on the fire and joins Clint, who turns right side up and crawls into his lap, cuddling close and passing thick smoke from mouth to mouth. He's every inch the juvenile delinquent, brassy and forward, shoving his hands up Phil's shirt and groping greedily, with no finesse at all. It makes Phil moan, and he blushes down to his collarbones as Clint makes him admit that he's a dirty old man who loves fucking his boy. They usually talk about things like this first, but Phil doesn't even think of yellow-lighting.


	8. Chapter 8

For all his aggression, Clint ends up on his back on the floor, bucking and whining as Phil ruts against him, moaning softly into his ear about how perfect he is, such a beautiful boy and Daddy loves him so much. Clint groans, tears filling his eyes. Pot makes him labile sometimes, and now he just whimpers and hangs on, coming hard. Phil follows just a moment later, and Clint clings to him and lets Phil clean him up. He's starting to get used to the weird things his head does, but this is a little alarming. Wiped down and tucked away, he's definitely done with sex for the day. He has his thumb in his mouth before he even realizes what he's doing, and Phil smiles.

"All right, darling?" Clint nods, and shows the crossed fingers of his other hand, his signal for feeling almost like an actual kid. Phil smiles. "Well, Christmas is tomorrow, but I really don't know if I can wait. What do you think?"

Clint shakes his head, because Christmas presents are for Christmas. Even if he is fucking _desperate_ to know what Phil got him. "How about just one?" Clint gives that a long, thoughtful moment, and then nods. Phil laughs and hugs him, kneeling by the tree. "Which one should it be?" Clint points to one of the only packages that's a real mystery, a mid-sized one in metallic green paper. Phil smiles and hands it over, sitting back to watch him unwrap it. Tearing the gorgeous paper off and lifting the cardboard flaps, he finds himself face to face with a pair of bright blue glass eyes. He stares, and then pulls out the silkiest, softest black plush rabbit that he has ever seen in his life. It's a little bit like Headthumper, but Headthumper was a scraggly hand-me-down wreck with a patch and one eye replaced with a button. He hugs it to his chest and finds it pleasantly squishy, touching the floppy ears with wondering fingers.

"Like it?"

"Yeah. Thank you, Daddy."

"Know what you're going to name it yet?" Phil asks, and Clint shifts to lean on him, still hugging the rabbit.

And Phil gave him that book, the one with the rabbits… "…Inlè-roo." 

Phil chuckles, and kisses the top of his head. "That's a good choice."

Clint beams. "Now you open one, Daddy!"

"All right, boss. Which one should it be?"

Clint sucks his thumb again, thinking. "That one," he says at last, pointing to the broad, thin package in metallic purple paper. Phil obediently fetches it, and settles down around Clint again, opening it. Clint is surprised at how nervous he feels. It's a perfectly decent gift, and one there's no real reason for Phil to dislike. Even so, he can't help whispering, "Do you like it, Daddy?" When the paper has come off and Phil hasn't said anything for a long while.

"Of course I do, precious boy. It's _beautiful_."

It really is, and took him a while to find. It's a lavish, old-fashioned, hardcover edition of The Little Prince, with a real cloth binding and everything. "Good."

"I've needed a new copy of this book for a long time."

"Really? I just know you like it, not what it's about."

"We absolutely need to fix that, buddy. Let's go to bed and I'll read some of it to you, okay?"

"Okay."

Because he feels so genuinely little, they both actually put on pajama bottoms (not the tops, the tops are uncomfortable) before they crawl in, and he just rests his head on Phil's chest, hugging Roo with one arm. "This used to be in French," he says, "and this translation has mistakes, but I really like it anyway." Clint purrs, and closes his eyes, loving his Daddy so much for loving imperfect things. He reads about the unnamed narrator's attempts at art, and the failings of his audience, then the arrival of the Little Prince and subsequent events.

 _'If I have told you these details about the asteroid, and made a note of its number for you, it is on account of the grown-ups and their ways. Grown-ups love figures. When you tell them that you have made a new friend, they never ask you any questions about essential matters.'_ Phil takes a sip of the water beside the bed and adjusts Clint's head just a little to a more comfortable angle. Clint purrs, almost asleep but still listening. _'They never say to you, "What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?"'_

This is where Clint leaves off, sliding into a dream of jeweled butterflies and tiny, perfect planets. He doesn't remember it later, but wakes up with a smile on Christmas morning. Phil gives him a kiss on the cheek and says he's going to go make breakfast. Clint purrs and falls back asleep for a little while, finally pulling on a t-shirt and wandering down. Phil has made a glorious breakfast, and he devours it with Roo still clutched tight, because talk about feeling like a kid on Christmas morning. Phil just beams at him and makes sure he gets plenty of food.

They clean up and bring their last cups of cocoa over to the tree, leaning on each other in the warmth of the fire as huge, feathery snowflakes drift down outside.


End file.
